


Safe As Houses

by relic_amaranth



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Getting Together, M/M, Mutual Pining, Other, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-03
Updated: 2019-03-03
Packaged: 2019-11-08 11:46:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17980733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/relic_amaranth/pseuds/relic_amaranth
Summary: You provide a safe haven for Steve when he needs it most– in more than one way.





	Safe As Houses

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Fluff, some pining, Reader doesn’t live in NYC
> 
> A/N: I’ve been sitting on this for a bit, unsure of whether I wanted to post it or not, but I’m going for it =] Based on a weird snippet of a dream I had, this thing was going to be long and involved but it just didn’t…have enough to it to make it a multi-chapter thing, so I decided to pare it down and apparently this is where it made the most sense to me. It is pretty much Steve/Reader wanting each other and beating around the bush until…well, it’s fluff, so you know how this goes. Please enjoy.

 

“Why is this one more expensive…” you mutter to yourself and study both cans. All those years of ‘spot the difference’ have to count for something, but grocery shopping still remains a challenge, somehow. In more ways than one, as someone hovers behind you. You scoot to the side but they follow you, big and looming. Who the hell creeps at a grocery store? You turn, hoping a flat ‘fuck off’ stare will do the trick, but what you find is a shockingly familiar face.

“Steve?!” you hiss. It’s not the nicest welcome for him maybe, but it isn’t like it’s _easy_ for him to just drop in.

“Shh,” he says and tucks his hat lower. He glances around. “I’m sorry to do this but I need help. Can I lie low at your place?”

Without giving it even a second thought you pull out your keys and take off the one for your house. He practically seeps relief when he slouches and you can see a flash of a cut by his ear. “Thanks,” he says and hugs you carefully. Fear wells up in you. Who (or what) hurt him? Why is he here instead of hunkering down with his team? This isn’t the place to ask, though, and any impulse to try fades when he aims a smile at you. “By the way, I missed you.”

You smile at your customary greeting. Long-distance friendships with a superhero aren’t any easier than ones with normal people, but you wouldn’t trade this for anything. Not _anything_. “Likewise,” you say softly and touch his cheek. “Go to my place and relax; I can get in through the garage. I’ll be done here soon.”

He nods, hesitates, and then leaves. You watch him go before you dump the cheaper can in your cart and then grab several more. At least he’s stopped in before you’ve finished your shopping– you’re definitely going to need a lot more food.

 

When you get home it’s dark inside from all the drawn blinds and completely silent. Steve would tell you if there was danger inside your house, right? This is just him being paranoid. …You hope.  “Home at last,” you say, just a little above normal volume, and start putting away groceries like everything _is_ normal.

Until you turn and run into a body. You barely clamp down on a yell. “What the– f– Steve!” you hiss.

“Relax; there’s no listening devices. I checked,” he says.

“Then don’t sneak up on me!” You smack his chest. “Also, thanks for the new nightmares about something I’ve literally never thought about before.”

He has the good sense to at least _look_ apologetic. “Sorry,” he says. He shifts his weight to his other foot and clears his throat. “Do you need help?”

“I got this.” Even in the dim, mostly blocked daylight you can see the dirt in patches on his skin and clothing, a recently healed cut on his neck, and eyes that sag. “Why don’t you go take a shower? Once we’re both done you can tell me what’s going on.”

He looks like he’s going to argue, but then he actually says, “Okay.”

“No arguments? Shit; you must really need to sleep,” you say and wipe off a smudge on his cheekbone.

“Don’t push it,” he says with a slight smile and grabs your hand. He doesn’t push you away though; his fingers lightly curl around your hand and you can feel his warmth seeping in. Even in the parts of your skin he isn’t touching.

You don’t know what to do, and Steve freezes too. You both unhook then; jerking like puppets whose masters don’t understand movement, until he rushes upstairs (shockingly quiet) and you go back to the mindless task of putting groceries away. You stop for a moment in the middle to start making a couple of frozen pizzas– if Steve didn’t stop to shower you doubt he stopped to eat.

Steve’s and your friendship is…unconventional. Mostly because of who he is, but also partly because you don’t make a habit out of befriending random people while on vacation. But Steve is special. A chance encounter at a museum turned into lunch, which turned into going to a few spots he recommended, which turned into spending the rest of your week in New York together, switching between playing tourist and acting local.

That, in turn, has become a long-distance friendship that is one of the most solid relationships you’ve ever had. It’s also…occasionally…flirty. You think. Okay, you’re pretty sure, actually, it’s just– _what if_ you’re wrong? And how could it even work, in the best case scenario of returned feelings, when you live a life here and he has a life there? Ultimately you’re happy with what you have, so you try not to think about what could– or could not– be.

Except those thoughts are hard to ignore when Steve is here. In your house. In your _shower_.

The oven timer goes off and saves you from having to jump into a cold shower of your own. Steve makes his appearance just a minute or so later, when you’re taking a few slices onto your plate.

“Help yourself,” you say, trying to avoid looking at him directly. You steal a little glance at him and as nice as he probably looks with damp hair and dewy skin, you can’t help but slide right over those to focus on the ridges of cuts healing fast and purple blossoms that seem to be fading before your eyes. But they’re still _there_ , and without thinking you touch a yellow spot on his collarbone. A combination of how _soft_ that spot is and him _flinching_ makes you gasp and jerk back.

“I’m so sorry, I– holy shit; is it broken?!” you ask, dumbfounded. Logically, yeah, Steve has to get hurt sometimes, but he always seems so sturdy. Almost unbreakable.

Except now, exhausted to the point of wild eyes trying to stay open and covered in cuts and bruises. “It’s fine; it’s healing.”

“Steve,” you say, and he pulls you into a hug. You avoid that side of his chest (how he’s walking and talking without curling into a pain-crying ball is beyond you) and hug him gently. His clothes smell like smoke and musk and it mingles with the scent of your soap and shampoo. You stay in that moment as he whispers, “I’m fine.”

It’s a terrible lie, but he’s not going to admit otherwise. His stomach rumbles and causes a little break in the tension. Enough for you to pull back and say, “And hungry, apparently.”

He smiles at you, and you sigh. “Fine; I’ll wait until you're done eating for the explanation.”

You don’t have to wait long. He scarfs down the food so fast that he finishes even before you do. He looks a lot better for it though; he doesn’t look as pale and the injuries are just about gone.

“See?” He grabs your hand and puts it to his collarbone– now back in one solid piece. “I’m fine.”

You’re a little distracted with feeling over his skin, but you still roll your eyes. “Just because you heal doesn’t negate that you were hurt in the first place.” Reluctantly, you take your hand back. “So: what the hell is going on?”

Steve’s expression loses any lightness it had and becomes a straight face befitting a troubled captain. “I’m still not quite sure,” he says and crosses his arms as he leans back in his seat. His eyes go down, but his mind obviously travels elsewhere. “Short version: Bucky, Sam, Tony, Bruce, Natasha, Clint, and even Thor are missing.”

“ _Missing_?” How do the Avengers– especially already-(in)famous billionaire Tony Stark– go _missing_?

“I don’t know who, how, or why,” Steve says, aiming his frown at the table. “Pepper put Stark’s tower on lockdown– I think Darcy, Jane, and Dr. Selvig are there as well. They sent me an SOS letting me know that Tony and Bruce and Thor were missing and I tried to go looking for them and the others. Clint and Natasha could have gone underground, but I feel like I would have heard from them in _some_ way by now, and Sam and Bucky are definitely missing.”

“And nobody’s gloating about it?”

“That’s actually what concerns me the most,” Steve says and looks up at you. “If just capturing us was their only goal, whoever it is would have come forward. But they haven’t. They’re still trying to catch me in secret.”

“Because whatever they want the Avengers for they need the full set?” you guess.

“I can only hope,” he says and runs his hand through his hair. “I’m sorry I dropped in like this, it’s just– I’ve kept our friendship to myself. No one knows about you, and this is the only place I could think of where I knew I would be safe.”

You puff up a little at that. Steve hasn’t even been to your house before but he feels safe here– which means, for some reason, he feels safe with _you_.

“I won't stay here long,” he says and before you can protest, adds, “No. Thank you, but I can’t put you in danger too.”

You hesitate. You want to insist that he can stay as long as he wants, but finding his friends is a time-sensitive thing and you don’t want to seem callous. “Whatever you need, Steve.”

His smile is warm but worn, and for a moment you can see his weariness– his fear. You get up and go next to him, and wrap your arms around his head and shoulders. “It’s going to be all right. Your friends are all smart and can keep themselves safe until you find them. And you will find them. _Without_ getting captured yourself.”

Steve chuckles. He holds onto you, arms around your waist, for several seconds before he releases you. “How did you know that was the back-up plan?”

“It’s the dumbest thing I could think of, so of course you have it as a plan.” You squeeze his shoulders. “Steve…”

“Don’t worry; that’s an absolute last resort,” he says and stands. He _wobbles_ but rights himself. “I have other leads, other ideas.”

“Okay. But Steve?” you say and he frowns like he knows what’s coming. You rush through it. “I know you're worried and I know you have to get to work but you're not going to save anyone if you pass out, and you are one strong breeze from toppling over. You’re all your friends have, so can you please at least take a nap?”

He seems to consider that. You know he knows you’re right, but it’s still a relief when he sighs and says, “Just a nap.”

“I’ll take care of this.” You shoo him away from the plates. “Go take my bed; the guest room isn’t set up.”

“Don’t you need a nap too?”

Steve’s joke makes you stop cold, (or, um, hot), but you crack a smile. “If you want to get me into bed, you’re going to have to do better than that.” It’s a straight lie– sometimes your fantasies are as pathetically simple as sharing a bed and being able to wrap around him like an octopus– but you want to play along. You actually make him blush, and as he runs away with a mumbled goodbye, you allow yourself to watch him go with unrepentant longing.

If only he wasn’t joking.

 

“Are you sure about this?”

Steve sighs and slams the trunk so hard you’re surprised it doesn’t break. The little old beater he’s ‘borrowing’ must be sturdier than it looks. When he turns to face you, you look down, already anticipating the exasperation. “Sorry,” you say.

“No, it’s…it’s fine.” He places his hands on your shoulders and you look up into weary eyes. “Trust me, I understand. I’m worried too. So just know that…that I’m the only hope my friends have, so I _have_ to be careful.”

You put your hands on top of his. You want to reassure him that they’re all strong and capable but it’s just lip service, and he knows them better than you do. So while he likely knows that, knowing and believing are two different things. “Hey Steve…I know you don’t want to ‘drag’ me into it, but you can crash here whenever you need to.”

He smiles. “I’ll keep it in mind,” he says like a promise, hugs you tight, and takes off.

You spend the rest of the day using your nervous energy to make up the guest room and clean the house. Just in case.

 

“Hey.”

You almost drop your bowl and you whirl around. “Steve!” you say and dump the bowl in the sink so you can hug him. You’re mindful of your wet and soapy hands– though you doubt his dirty uniform top would mind it. He hugs you back and you are definitely going to need a shower now, but you don’t mind. Especially when he exhales like he’s deflating and leans on you. He’s surprisingly heavy, but you don’t bend against the weight.

…Much.

He lets out a weak huff that you think is supposed to be a laugh. “About that offer to ‘crash here whenever I need to…’”

You pat his back and (reluctantly) separate. “The guest room is all set up. You’re stuck with my soap and shampoo though.”

“I don’t mind that,” he says with a sly smile. Quickly, though, it disappears. “Um, sorry. Can I use your laundry?”

“Sure. Secret agent man you are, you probably know where it is.” His smile answers in the affirmative. “Good. Do you need me to do anything?”

“No, but thanks,” he says and, while he doesn’t run, he certainly walks with purpose.

And quite a bit of focus, apparently. You’ve just finished the dishes when he comes back, clean and changed. You never expected shower-damp Steve to be such a constant threat in your life and now that he is you’re not sure if you should curse it or praise it. Maybe both.

“Can I have these?” Steve asks, holding up three boxes of macaroni and cheese.

“Of course.” You turn off the faucet and dry your hands. “Want me to make them for you?”

The look he gives you can only be described as ‘pissy.’ Someone on the outside might describe it as ‘disapproving’ but you know him too well for that. “I can make macaroni and cheese.”

“Since when? I gotta see this.” You hop up on the counter and lean over to watch. “Big pot is in the cabinet right there.”

“Thanks,” he says dryly and goes about filling it up with water so it can start boiling. As he’s getting the milk and butter together, something occurs to you.

“Hey,” you say. “I _could_ have been offering to make it for you because that’s what a good host does.”

“That’s not why you offered though.” Steve winks at you and wow. That’s so much worse/better than the emojis he sends you. Worse than that: that’s all you’re going to see in his texts from now on.

“How did you know?” You turn your head to watch the pot.

“Because I know you,” he says. Fondly. You’re sure of that part; the real question is: fond like fond-of-a-friend, or fond like getting-fonder fond?

“Well it’s not out of bounds for me to assume you don’t know how to cook. Popular media tells me all New Yorkers only have a fridge, a microwave, and maybe one counter to store their take-out menus on.”

“Well _I_ have a fridge, a microwave, an _oven_ , and _two_ counters,” Steve says and pours the pasta into the pot. “One for the take-out menus, and one for food.”

“Fancy,” you ‘gasp’ in awe.

“You don’t remember it?” He turns his head to look at you but keeps stirring.

“I’ve never been to your place,” you say. “I’m not part of that cool kids club.”

Steve’s smile is a little sad– like he’s thinking about that club. You wince. “How’s it…going?” you ask, even though you’re afraid to.

“Better. I’m…I’m making progress.” He looks at the pot. “Sorry but I think it’s safer if you don’t know the details.”

“It’s okay. I’m just glad you’re _being_ safe about it,” you say and scoot over as he comes to the sink to drain the pot.

“Like you said, I’m all they have.” Steve sets the bowl of pasta sans water in the empty sink and turns to you. He moves his hand to your other side and puts it on the counter _right_ next to your thigh. Your stomach flips but you barely get to freak out about that when he moves his face _incredibly_ close to yours.

“Thanks again,” he says. “For letting me stay here.”

“Anytime,” you say before you can think about it. It’s still true, at least. But Steve stays there, and stays there, and stays, but does nothing and shows no sign of doing anything. Which is…

…the right thing. Much as it hurts you to admit it. Steve is alone and scared and you are not going to take advantage, even despite the overwhelming temptation. You lean back. “You should, uh…”

He blinks and jerks back. “Right– _right_.”

“Before the, um…”

“Yes, thanks.” Steve goes back to making his dinner but shoots you a relieved smile over his shoulder. It’s disappointing to be so close to _something_ and have to let it go, but you’re starting to think…maybe he’s more receptive than you previously believed. Maybe after all of this is over you’ll see if he’s as interested in you as you are in him.

Or maybe you’ll just…continue to stare from afar. And aclose. It’s a toss-up.

Though the next day you find yourself struggling with the idea of letting him go. He had insisted he rested enough and needs to head out, which is why you’re sitting in your car at the airport drop-off, currently scrambling for excuses to make him stay.

He doesn’t leave right away either. Though he does sigh and say, “I should go before the, uh, officer gets back.”

“That guy’s a dick,” you mutter. But when Steve unbelts and opens the door, you catch his arm before he’s out of reach. “Be…be safe.”

“I will.” He puts his hand over yours and lingers.

Until a loud ‘whoop!’ of a police car makes him slide it away and he gets out, grabs his bag, and disappears into the mill of travelers.

You drive away, already settling in to wait on the edge until he comes back.

 

A few days later you’re just getting up, shuffling to get ready for work, when you pass by the guest room and stop suddenly. Steve is lying face down on the bed, sleeping soundly, wearing only his pants. His back is covered in fading purple and the curves of his muscles catch your eyes for only a moment before you focus on those bruises, the stray cuts and small trails of dried blood that he couldn’t quite reach with the damp rag that now sits on the floor just under his dangling fingers.

You sigh and shamble back to your room to call out sick for the day.

 

“Ow!”

“Stop being such a baby.” You dab the area with a dry cloth. “You walked and talked with a broken clavicle; this does _not_ hurt that bad.”

“I told you, I heal fine on my own.” Steve holds up his arm. “See? This one already closed up.”

“Great; so infection sneaks in and gets sealed in fast.”

“And then eliminated by the serum.”

You hit him with the washcloth but he leans back and laughs. You smile too, despite what a child he’s been. How can you not, when he manages to be light incarnate despite everything going on? His smile dims, but that’s reasonable. You’ve never minded his shadows, anyway.

“I know you’re a liar,” you say and gently wipe away the rest of the blood from his shoulder. “I have a patch of wet carpet from your own attempt to do this that will testify.”

He rolls his eyes. “I already apologized for that.”

“Steve. It’s not about the carpet.” You put your hand down, still holding the rag. “It’s okay to…get help, you know?”

“You help a lot.” He puts his hand on yours, and wraps his long fingers around. His eyes are…so blue, it’s almost unreal. He squeezes your hand and water from the cloth drips to the floor, but it sounds distant. You can’t look away from him. Even more so when Steve licks his lips. “I…in case something happ–”

His phone trills three times and Steve jumps up so fast he almost knocks you over. He catches you with one hand, apologizes, and runs over to check it. After staring at the screen for a few tense seconds, he inhales sharply. “I have to go.”

You throw the rag onto the table and wipe your hand on your pants. “Do you need a ride?”

“I got it; it’s probably safer if you’re not with me right now,” Steve says as he taps out something in his phone. He darts up the stairs without another word.

You barely get to clean up before he’s rushing back down, dressed, with his bag on his shoulder. You stand to toss a ‘be safe!’ at him as he inevitably runs out, but find yourself face-to-face with him. He grabs your shoulders to steady you. “When I get back,” he says, “I have something to tell you.”

“O…kay?” You can’t imagine what he has to tell you that he can’t do it right now, but it’s a good assurance nonetheless. “Don’t make me wait too long.”

He smiles. “I won't,” he promises, pulls his hat low, and slips out.

 

Only a couple of nights later you wake up to a large shadowed figure standing just outside your bedroom door.

“Steve?” You yawn. “Are you okay?”

“So, the captain _is_ staying here.”

The unfamiliar voice wakes you up better than an espresso injection and you jolt up only to stare at a shadowed figure holding something out. You know what it is when you see it glint in a sliver of moonlight.

“Do not move. Do not scream.”

You clutch the blanket in a tight fist. You obey, and hope that he won't shoot you.

“Where is Captain America?”

“I don’t know,” you whisper.

“I have no patience for liars,” he says and steps forward.

“I’m– I’m not lying!” You scoot back as far as you can. “He doesn’t tell me and I– I don’t ask.”

“Hm.” He’s silent for a few seconds, during which you make a conscious effort to breathe quietly. “So you are useless, then.”

The gun clicks and you freeze. At this angle there’s no way to get cover and you don’t know if your petrified body can move anyway. Still, you try and you roll out of bed. The shot is loud and you can feel bits of plaster hit your back as you hit the floor.

“ _STAY DOWN_!”

Steve. You curl into a ball as shots fire and something smashes into your walls. It’s cacophonous, but quick– the noise ends, though your ears keep ringing, and when heavy boots rush at you, you curl up tighter.

“Hey, it’s all right,” a kind voice says. “I’m Sam Wilson and I’m gonna help you up. Are you hurt?”

“No,” you say but as you stand you wince at a stinging cut in your back. You try not to focus too hard on the rampant destruction of your room. You’re alive, at least.

The shock is enough that you’re at the bottom of the stairs when you blurt out, “Steve,” and look around. “I heard him; where– is he oka–”

“Easy,” Sam says and leads you to the couch. “He’s fine; just rounding up some stragglers.”

“Okay,” you breathe, but there’s that pain again.

“I recognize that face.” Sam pulls out a small bag. “Where’s it hurt?”

Sam takes care of you and you try not to worry about how long it’s taking Steve to track down ‘stragglers.’ But it’s not easy to relax after a wake up like that. Or when a red-headed assassin and her blond partner are watching you like hawks. Well, one hawk. You’re more worried about the Black Widow.

“There.” Sam pulls the edge of your top back down, returning to you some modicum of dignity. “Doesn’t even need stitches.”

“Thank you,” you say and blink away sleep.

“So…” Nata– Black Widow and Hawkeye walk over to sit and stand in front of you, respectively. “How do you know Steve?”

“Um…” You know Steve never told them, but it doesn’t feel like your place. What should you say? “I–”

Your name is called by a comfortingly familiar voice and you get to your feet as he rushes in the back door, Bucky at his heels. Steve’s suit is a little dirty and his hair is messed up, but he looks fine.

You breathe for what feels like the first time as he strides up to you. “St–”

Warm.

Steve’s lips are very warm.

You know this because they are very on _your_ lips.

As soon as you make this realization, you snap to– and you wrap your arms around him and open your mouth to his. Steve responds immediately, slipping his tongue in and holding you as close as he possibly can without breaking your back. Not that it matters, because you’re dead. You have to be. You’re dead and in some fabulous afterlife, or you’re dying and hallucinating, because this can’t really be happening.

Can it?

You both break apart, (well, at face level at least), gasping for air. You lick your lips. “That was…new.”

You’re so close to him you can practically feel his cheeks radiate warmth when he blushes. “I’m sorry, I…” He hugs you tight. “I can’t believe I almost lost you.”

You’re content to stay in his arms forever, but pointed coughing makes you recognize other people are in the room. Steve practically leaps away from you, which is fair, considering just _how_ amused his friends are and, okay, this isn’t the first impression you would have wanted to make on his friends, but you find it hard to be upset considering _Steve just kissed you_.

“I cannot _believe_ you kept this a secret from your _best friend_ ,” Bucky says, placing a hand over his heart, but he’s grinning. You know well enough from the stories Steve has told you that poor Steve is never going to get to live this down.

“How do you know he didn’t tell me about it?” Sam says. Bucky shoves him, and they start to bicker. Steve puts a hand to his face.

“ _I_ didn’t know.”

Natasha’s words still the room. She’s vaguely impressed, but…

“Successfully keeping a secret from the Black Widow.” You squint at Steve. “Is that something that goes on your resume or your tombstone?”

Steve and some of the others laugh and you feel a little less on edge. Just a little. But they talk to each other, and Steve uses the opportunity to pull you into the kitchen.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” he says, eyes darting and head moving as he looks over every inch of you.

“Fucking hell, Steve, take me to dinner first,” you blurt out, and he blushes.

But he says, “I’d like that.”

You blink. “You would?”

“Yes.” He moves in closer. “And we’ll talk about this.”

You lick your lips. “We will?”

“Yeah. Later. For now…” He pulls you into a kiss. And follows it up with even more.

Later, then.

You have plenty of time.


End file.
